


Timing

by ofplanet_earth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: 1600s, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, M/M, Time Travel, Time Travelling Fireplace, i promise there is a happy ending, not much fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: At ten years old, Thranduil and his parents visit a little Welsh cottage where he finds an imaginary friend; a boy who lives inside the fireplace in his bedroom. Eight years later, he returns to discover that he hadn't been imagining anything after all. Bard Bowman is a very real boy, and the fireplace in Thranduil's cottage bedroom is an impossible gateway to another time. Thranduil returns to the cottage several times, but each visit finds Bard and Thranduil at different points in their lives.Their timing is never quite right.Or: five times Thranduil leaves without Bard, and one time he doesn't.





	1. 1991

**Author's Note:**

> okay, fic two of NaNoWriMo 2017! I apologise for the wait, but I stumbled upon this story idea while I was struggling to write a separate story two weeks ago. also, it's quite long, and I've decided to separate it into six chapters, one for every time Thranduil and Bard meet. 
> 
> this story was inspired by the Doctor Who episode The Girl in the Fireplace, which is one of my absolute favourites. it was originally going to be pretty similar to the plot of the episode, but over the course of my brainstorming, the story changed quite a lot. so it's a Girl in the Fireplace AU in the sense that there's a fireplace, and it connects two people across hundreds of years. 
> 
> I'm going to come right out and say that, although I did do a fair amount of research into he time period, there are going to be some (read: lots) of historical inaccuracies. some details I couldn't find any info about, and some things just didn't fit with my story, so I altered them (see end notes for specifics). other choices were made with minimal practical purpose (like Pembroke as a location), but I regret nothing.

[ 1 ]

Thranduil held tightly to his mother’s hand, tugging her urgently forward down the long drive. He was bouncing with excitement, eager to explore the house and play in the garden. He’d thought this trip would be boring when his parents had told him they were going to stay in a small cottage in Wales but now that he was here, he could barely contain his excitement.

There was a huge garden spread out over a gentle hill, and at the very edge was a forest filled with tall trees and shadows that made Thranduil think of knights and thieves and magic. This was a place for having epic adventures, and Thranduil wanted to run off and find one. 

He played in the garden all through the first day, slaying imaginary dragons with a sword made from the cardboard core of a kitchen roll. But on the second day, he woke up to find the sky heavy with dark grey rain clouds, and his mother wouldn’t let him go outside. 

Instead, he spent the morning exploring the house: he found a secret passageway beneath the coffee table in the living room, and he discovered a massive cave when he lifted up the edge of the table cloth in the kitchen. Then his father shooed him up the stairs and told him to play more quietly, so Thranduil searched for hidden treasure in the linen closet and lay siege to the castle that lay beyond his bedroom door. 

When he’d finally broken through the drawbridge and stormed into the room, he found that a fire had been lit in the old stone fireplace. His mother had taught him to be careful with fire ever since he’d accidentally burned off a large lock of his hair the year before, but the fireplace was already lit. Surely his parents wouldn’t have lit a fire in his bedroom if he wasn’t allowed to play nearby?

He settled sown in front of the hearth, careful to keep a safe distance from the small but steadily burning pile of logs on the hearth. No sooner had he sat down than he heard a voice from somewhere nearby. It was a boy, he thought, a boy near his age. But there was nobody in the room with him, and when he got to his feet to check out the windows, he couldn’t see anyone there either. It was only when he returned to his seat in front of the fireplace that he heard the voice again. 

“Hello?” Thranduil called. He might have been scared to hear a voice without being able to find its source, except that he’d been certain that it was a young boy, or he supposed it could have been a girl, and he wasn’t afraid of children his own age.

The voice came again, and this time Thranduil thought he could make out the words, “who’s there?” 

“Hello?” He called again. “Where are you?” 

He saw a flicker of movement out of the corner of his vision, but it was just a trick of the light; just the flames flickering playfully in the hearth that had drawn his eye. But when Thranduil turned to look more closely, he saw that it was no trick of the flames. Or at least, it was a very good one, because there, in the darkness of the fireplace, was a boy peering back at him. He was crouched on his knees on the other side of the flames, and Thranduil might have thought it was just a reflection, only this boy had dark hair. 

“How did you get inside there?” Thranduil frowned, his childish mind more concerned with how a boy could find such a hiding place and less concerned with the impossibility of such a place. 

“Inside where?” The boy asked. 

“Inside the fireplace.” 

“This is my bedroom,” the boy argued, “you’re inside _my_ fireplace.” 

Thranduil frowned as he tried to make sense of this, but soon he was distracted, excited by the promise of having another friend to play with. “I’m Thranduil, what’s your name?” 

“Bard,” the boy replied hesitantly. His eyebrows were twisted into a deep frown, as though he wasn’t quite sure if that was his name.

“Do you want to play a game with me?” Bard seemed to consider this, the lines of his forehead smoothing and then creasing again as he studied Thranduil over the flickering flames. 

“What sort of game?” 

“Make believe. I just finished storming the castle, but we can play whatever you like.” 

“Who was inside the castle?” 

“Bandits and thieves. They took the castle and were keeping the king and queen prisoner. I was just about to fight the dragon and set them free, but now we can fight it together!” 

“Alright,” Bard finally decided, a small smile betraying his excitement over the prospect of slaying a dragon.

They played for an hour or more, each taking turns battling the dragon, fighting it from both sides of the fireplace until Thranduil’s mother called him downstairs to eat.

[ - ]

Bard wasn’t there when he returned after dinner, but Thranduil saw him again the next morning. The fire had burned down over the night, and Thranduil was able to reach into the fireplace and give Bard one of his toys. 

On the last day of their vacation, Thranduil’s father came into the room to find him sitting by the fireplace. The fire was burning and the room on the other side was empty, but Thranduil had decided to wait for Bard. He wanted to be able to say goodbye before he had to leave, but his father only pulled him to his feet, poured water over the burning logs, and helped Thranduil hastily pack his belongings into his suitcase. 

His father scolded him on the drive home, even though Thranduil tried to tell them he hadn’t lit the fires himself, and that he was careful not to get too close to the flames. He told his parents about the boy who lived inside the fireplace, about how they’d defeated a dragon and played other make-believe games. His mother turned in her seat to give him a soft smile, but he knew she didn’t believe him anymore than his father did. 

They returned to their home in London, and didn’t make the journey to the Pembroke cottage for several years.


	2. 1999

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil returns to Pembroke and meets another boy inside the fireplace.

[ 2 ]

The cottage was exactly the same as Thranduil remembered it. Nearly eight years had passed since he’d been here as a boy, and he could see why he’d loved this place so much. He could remember running through the garden and wandering close to the tree line even though it had scared him a bit to even be near the forest. The trunks of the trees had been cloaked in thick shadows and the wind had howled as it blew between them, and Thranduil had imagined all manner of evil would live inside such a place.

But looking at it now, he could see it was just a forest. Not even a particularly large one, considering how the town proper lay just on the other side, but that had seemed worlds away to his young mind.

The same garden that had seemed so enchanting to Thranduil’s ten-year-old mind now seemed rather ordinary. Winter was fast approaching, and all the life had been drained from the gentle slopes of the glade and the trees beyond. Where it had been green and lush, now it was cold and barren, each branch reaching out from the edges of the garden like so many grey, withered hands. The wind picked up the long ends of Thranduil’s hair and whistled through the trees. He sighed, and set off toward the front door. 

There was little to do inside the cottage, and so Thranduil spent most of his time reading. A small collection of books lined the shelves on the far wall of his bedroom, and Thranduil browsed them lazily. He selected a book he’d read for school the previous year, sat on the bed and opened to the first page, resigning himself to a dreadful boring holiday.

Thranduil was nearing the end of his book when he heard a rustling noise from across the room. It was a small space, most of it filled up by the sagging twin bed in the corner and the fireplace on the opposite wall. Thranduil could remember playing in front of it for hours when he’d been here last. It was a large and cavernous thing, large enough to contain entire worlds fit for playing make believe games. Looking at it now, it was completely out of place in the quaint little cottage. It was simple and plain, and the entire thing was made from rough grey stone, worn smooth in places from years of use. The hearth was deep and flat, the entire surface flush with the floor and extended in a half-circle in front of the firebox, the stones set into the floor.

The noise came again, almost like the sound of chalk tapping against a chalkboard, a pebble falling against tarmac, or marbles clacking against each other. But the room was empty. He checked outside the windows, but there was nothing there, nothing that should have made such a sound. He was about to sit down again and return to his book when he heard it again, only this time it was closer, more distinct, like metal striking a piece of stone.

He wasn’t imagining things, he was sure. He walked across the hall to his parent’s room and listened there, checked outside the windows, but there was nothing. He walked back across the hall and stood in the centre of his room, waiting, until the sound came again. This time he heard it directly behind him. 

The fireplace. Something about it still felt huge to Thranduil, though the rest of the house seemed much smaller now than it had seemed when he was a boy. But looking at it now, it was clear to him that it was out of place.

He studied the wall and the old stone mantel, didn’t see anything that could be making such a sound. But then the noise came again, very clearly, and then he heard it a third time. Thranduil was about to go outside to go find his father, tell him there might have been something lodged in the chimney, when he saw it. 

It was faint, only a small flicker of light illuminating the stone floor of the hearth. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but it _was_ there. Thranduil crouched before the fireplace and peered inside. He knew, logically that it must be a loose stone striking against the chimney or the hearth, but the strangeness of the entire situation mixed with his old boyhood fantasies had conjured some frightening images of what could be inside.

But he did not see any loose stones or fallen piping, and there were no malevolent creatures waiting to jump out of the shadows. There were logs on the floor of the hearth, and kindling too, though he hadn’t put them there, and he couldn’t remember ever noticing that they’d been there before. The faint flash of light came again, and this time Thranduil saw there were sparks appearing just behind the logs. Sparks flew once, twice, three more times, until finally the first piece of kindling caught. 

Thranduil blinked and rubbed his eyes, but the flames did not disappear, only grew. He must be dreaming. Sparks did not fly on their own. Fires did not start themselves, they just didn’t. He watched as the fire spread to a spiralled sliver of shaved wood, and then to a small bundle of twigs that lay spread over the logs. 

The fire burned brighter as Thranduil knelt before the hearth, eyes wide as he tried to understand what exactly he was seeing. Was he going mad? The fire burned brighter, the heat of it warming the skin of Thranduil’s face and hands. 

Thranduil shook his head as if suddenly broken from a trance. What was he doing just staring at it? He stood and ran down the stairs and past his parents where they sat in the living room, and fetched a bowl from the kitchen. He filled the bowl with water, carried it to his bedroom, and dumped it unceremoniously over the growing fire.

The logs crackled and spat, smoke and steam billowing weakly from the fireplace. Thranduil’s heart belatedly began to race, as if only just comprehending that there had been a spontaneous fire in his bedroom. 

He sighed and turned to bring the empty bowl back down to the kitchen. Whatever the cause, at least the fire was put out now. 

“Oi! What the hell?” 

Thranduil froze in front of the door. This was not the most ideal time for his mind to be playing tricks on him. It was ridiculous, he knew, but he could have sworn he’d heard a young boy’s voice coming from behind him. 

He turned. The room was still empty and the windows were closed, just same as it had been before. He walked back to the centre of the room and bent down to peer inside the fireplace again. 

At first he saw nothing, but soon he realised that he couldn’t see the rear wall of the firebox. And that was strange by itself, wasn’t it? Because the fireplace shouldn’t be deep enough that the back was hidden. The stone of the hearth and mantel was dark, but wirer there should have been more stone, Thranduil could see only darkness. He knelt down, inching closer to peer inside. 

Suddenly, right before Thranduil’s eyes, a face appeared in the shadows. He cursed, reeling backward and landing on his arse in the centre of the room. The empty bowl clattered noisily to the floor, and then everything was silent. His heart was racing, pounding against his ribs. For a moment, he thought the face had disappeared, but as he looked closer Thranduil could see the faint shapes of eyes, a nose and mouth, and the smooth, round cheeks of a boy peering at him through the gloom. 

A boy, it was just a boy; a neighbourhood child playing tricks, perhaps. He crawled toward the fireplace again, stopping once his hands reached the edge of the stone hearth.

“Hello?” Thranduil called. He felt incredibly foolish, speaking into his fireplace, but he could make out more of the detail in the boy’s face now. He was young, perhaps ten or twelve, and his eyes were wide with fright. “It’s alright,” Thranduil stammered. He had no idea what he should do in this situation. “It’s alright, I’m not angry. You can come out from there now.” 

“Sir?” The boy frowned. “Come out from where?” 

“Don’t be silly, come on you’ve had your fun but now it’s time to stop playing games. Come out of there.” 

“I— I’m not playing no games sir, I was sent to light the fire for the night. Why did you put it out?” 

“Why did I—“ Thranduil drew a sharp breath in through his nose, trying his best not to lose his patience with the boy. “You _lit a fire_ in someone else’s house! What were you thinking? How did you even get in there?”

“It’s getting dark,” The boy said, as if this explained everything. “We need a fire to stay warm.” 

Thranduil closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. It wouldn’t help matters any to get angry. “I’ll ask you one more time. What are you doing in my house?” 

“But— I don’t— but this is my house.” 

“Your house?” Thranduil was beginning to lose his temper; his patience had run out and he wanted to be done with this ridiculous game. “I don’t know if you were renting the cottage before we arrived, but that still does not give you the right to go playing tricks! Come out of the fireplace and we’ll find your parents.” 

“But you’re inside _my_ fireplace, sir!” The boy still looked frightened, but he didn’t look as though he’d just been caught playing a trick. He looked genuinely confused and afraid.

Thranduil sighed and scrubbed his eyes, taking another deep breath to calm himself. When he opened them, he thought he saw a flicker of light from behind the boy, deeper inside the fireplace. Was there someone else inside there with him? But that was absurd. One boy shouldn’t have been able to hide inside without Thranduil knowing, let alone two. He squinted when the flicker came again, and he thought he could see— it was impossible, but he could have sworn he saw a candle flickering, or maybe a lamp.

Thranduil turned to look behind him, sure that it must be a trick of the light, but there was nothing there that could cause what he saw. He looked inside again, daring to edge closer to the still-steaming logs in the hearth. 

More details appeared to him as he moved closer, but what he saw didn’t make any sense. The fireplace opened up to a wide, empty space about as large as Thranduil’s bedroom. No, it was exactly the same size as Thranduil’s room. He could make out a small wooden bed pushed into the corner— the same corner his own bed was pushed in to, when viewed from the vantage of the fireplace— and a small chest of drawers in another. A rough, braided rug was spread out on the floor between them. 

“This is not possible,” Thranduil whispered. The chimney ran between this room and his parents’ bedroom to provide a vent for both fireplaces, but he’d just been inside his parents’ room, and he knew for a fact it did not look like this.

“Magic,” the boy replied. 

“There’s no such thing as magic,” Thranduil countered, though he didn’t feel nearly as certain as he had moments before. The boy had sounded so certain that against his better judgement, Thranduil wondered if he was right. 

He could see the boy better now that his eyes had adjusted the darkness inside the fireplace. His face was dirty, smudged from brow to chin with streaks of dirt. He wore a loose-fitting shirt that might have been white once, but age and use had stained it yellow and worn it nearly down to rags. He didn’t back away as Thranduil leaned closer, though he looked as though he wanted to. Thranduil was kneeling practically inside the fireplace now, the residual heat of the logs warming his skin through his T-shirt.

This wasn’t possible. He knew it wasn’t, but he couldn’t deny what he was seeing. 

Thranduil inched forward, accidentally putting his hand down directly onto a soft pile of grey ash. He grimaced and wiped it absentmindedly on his trousers. “What is your name?” He asked.

“Brân,” the boy replied. “Brân Bowman,” he said, and something in his features seemed to solidify with the words. There was something familiar about him, something about his name and the shape of his round face that tugged at the back of Thranduil’s mind. He held out his hand but Thranduil hesitated, unsure of whether or not he was hallucinating and uncertain which he’d rather believe: that he had possibly suffered some sort of psychotic break, or that there was actually a boy living inside the fireplace in his study. 

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, and slowly reached out to grasp the boy’s hand. “I’m Thranduil.” 

If this was a hallucination, he thought, it was a damn convincing one. The boy— Brân— stared at him with wide eyes. Thranduil frowned, trying to connect the name with the memory nagging at him. He’d had an imaginary friend, hadn’t he? When he’d played beside this fireplace as a boy, he’d dreamed up a playmate to keep him company during the rainy days. 

But his name hadn’t been Brân, had it? The name was familiar but it didn’t ringing quite true.

“Is there anyone in the house with you, Brân?” He tried to remember the name of the boy who had been his imaginary friend all those years ago, the boy he’d seen inside the fireplace when he was young. It hung there just beyond his reach, and Thranduil thought that if he heard it again, he would remember.

“Girion is my Da,” Brân said. Confusion and old memories warred in Thranduil’s head. Girion had not been the name of his imaginary friend, he knew that for a certainty. “Do you know my father?” 

“No,” Thranduil shook his head. “I thought I might have, but I don’t.” 

Just then, another voice called out from beyond the fireplace. “Brân, what are you doing? I thought Da asked you to light the fire.” 

“I did,” Brân said, “But the fairy man put it out.” 

“Fairy man?” The voice was coming closer, and now Thranduil watched as another boy crossed the impossible room. “Don’t be daft, you know there’s no such thing as fairies.” 

“But you told me there was! You said you’d seen one in the fireplace, you said you’d talked to him.” 

“It was just a story, Brân, you know that.” 

“But there’s a fairy inside the fireplace now, Bard! He’s right here!” 

Bard. Thranduil’s mind snagged on the name and suddenly he remembered it all perfectly. The boy he’d met in the fireplace, the hours he’d spent playing in this very spot, the way his father had scolded him when he thought Thranduil had started the fire on his own. The boy’s name. _Bard_. He had no idea how he could have forgotten it. 

He watched as Bard knelt down slowly in front of the hearth. The broad line of his shoulders came into view, and then the gentle waves of his hair curling around his ears. Then suddenly he was staring at Thranduil, his face had changed over the years, and yet somehow he was still the same as Thranduil remembered. He wore a stained white shirt with billowing sleeves, and a long leather wasicoat over that. 

“Bard?” Thranduil’s voice was barely more than a whisper, disbelief and shock stealing the breath from his chest. 

Bard’s face had gone slack with shock as he stared at him over the soggy logs. “Thranduil?” He spoke the name as if he’d been speaking it secretly for years, and the only truly surprising thing about the situation was that they were seeing each other again after all this time. “How is this possible?” 

“Magic,” Brân supplied helpfully, so certain that Thranduil thought he must be right. “Fairy magic, like you used to tell me about.” 

“Fairy magic,” Bard repeated the words as if he was in a trance. He was still studying Thranduil, and Thranduil was studying him. “Brân, go get some more logs for the fire.” 

“But I want to—“ 

“Go, now, or else I’ll tell Da that you poured water over these ones.”

“But that wasn’t _me_ ,” Brân pleaded, “it was the—“ 

“Go, please,” Bard said. He still hadn’t taken his eyes off Thranduil. Brân finally sulked away, leaving them both in silence. 

“You’re not real,” Thranduil mused. “You were just my invisible friend. I made you up, you were never supposed to come back. You can’t have been, it’s not possible.” 

“I used to think you were one of the the fairy folk. A wood elf. I thought you’d been trapped in the logs when we cut the trees down.”

“You believed in fairies?” 

“Everyone knows the stories of the fair folk,” he argued. “What about you? You believed in invisible boys?” 

“No, not… invisible, exactly. More like imaginary. I thought I’d made you up.” Thranduil studied him again, the strange look of his clothes and asked, “Why are you dressed like that?” 

“Dressed like what?” Bard looked down at himself as if he’d forgotten what he was wearing and had to make sure. 

“Are you like, a Quaker?” 

“A what?”

“A Quaker or… I don’t know, a Mennonite or something?” 

“You’re speaking nonsense,” Bard frowned. 

“Okay so then why are you dressed that way?” 

“And what about you? What about your clothes? What do you even call that?” Bard waved a hand in Thranduil’s direction. 

“It’s a T-shirt,” Thranduil looked down the same way Bard had, though he knew he was only wearing a cotton shirt and jeans. “And denim trousers.” What was going on? Where was Bard that he seemed so out of touch? “Where are you from?” He asked.

“Pembroke, of course. Where are you?” 

“Pembroke,” 

“But you’re English.” 

“I’m in town with my parents on holiday.” 

“And it’s daylight where you are,” Bard argued.

“No, it’s after dark here.”

“But the room is so bright there, how could it be night?” 

“I’ve got the light’s on, that’s all.” Thranduil frowned. None of this was making any sense, it was almost as if— 

Thranduil took another look around the room behind Bard. There was the bed frame he’d seen before, but then he also noticed a second bed— more of a ratty mattress really— lying on the floor beside it. It was thin and lumpy, like a futon, and the blankets were rough and threadbare. The room was dark, and the light Thranduil had seen flickering before was coming from an oil lamp on the chest of drawers. It was the only source of light in the room. 

“It can’t be,” Thranduil whispered to himself. Then he said to Bard, “I’m coming over.” 

Bard looked as though he was about to argue, but Thranduil was already on his hands and knees, picking his way over the soggy firewood and crawling through the fireplace. It seemed to take a long time to crawl through, as though there was a tunnel connecting the two fireplaces that Thranduil hadn’t been able to see. 

When he stood, there was ash and soot on his shirt and his jeans, but he hardly noticed. He realised he was standing in his cottage bedroom, but everything looked just slightly different. The windows were made of small panes of glass interwoven with wooden strips, and instead of the old wallpaper in his room, the walls here were covered in plain white plaster around the bare beams of the house. The door hung open to his right, but that wasn’t the same either; it was made of planks of uneven, untreated wood, and it swung open as Brân came back inside, a small pile of fresh logs in his arms. 

“You let the fairy man out?” 

Bard said something that Thranduil did not quite hear. He was caught up in his study of the room, all the details coalescing and beginning to form an answer in his mind. 

“Bard,” he asked distantly, “What year is it?” 

“Are you daft?” Bard and his brother were both staring at him in a way that Thranduil might have been expected if he’d just sprouted a second head or begun speaking Latin. “It’s sixteen hundred and thirty.” 

Thranduil’s mind was spinning. There was no way he had climbed out of his fireplace and stepped into the past. It was completely crazy, so completely _impossible_ that he thought for sure he must be dreaming. “You’re lying. You’re pulling my leg, there’s no way it’s sixteen thirty.” 

“What rock have you been living under?” Bard laughed, as though there was any part of this situation that could be interpreted as _funny_. 

“I have to go,” Thranduil mumbled, turning numbly back toward the fireplace. His gut churned and his heart raced, his whole body filled with such an intense feeling of _wrong_. He crouched down low and crawled clumsily through, knocking over the firewood with his knee. 

He emerged in his room again, squinting in the bright fluorescent light. He saw Bard and his brother staring at him as he spared one last glance through the fireplace. It was all so surreal. Thranduil stood on shaky legs and left the room, turning off the lights and closing the door firmly behind him.

[ - ]

The next morning, after a fitful night spent sleeping on the sofa, Thranduil sat down to breakfast with his parents. He did little more than pick distractedly at his eggs and sausage, his mind still dizzy with everything he’d seen the night before, still half-hoping that it had all been a dream.

The fireplace was dark when he returned after breakfast, the logs that had been there before now only a pile of ash on the hearth. Thranduil thought he could smell the lingering scent of woodsmoke in the air. He hesitated beside the mantel, afraid of what he might see when he looked inside and unsure which outcome he feared more. 

There were smudges of grey ash on the floor in front of the hearth from where he’d crawled back through. He took a deep breath and dropped to one knee. 

It was brighter on the other side than it had been the night before. Light shone diffusely through the small window, and Thranduil knew the sun would climbing to its full height in the sky, same as it was outside his own window. 

“Where are you from?” Bard’s voice was so close, and Thranduil realised with a small start that he was sitting directly opposite Thranduil, his legs spread out in front of the hearth while he leaned against the mantel. 

“London,” Thranduil said simply. 

“But you’re in Pembroke now?” Bard looked up at him from where he’d been studying his hands. Thranduil nodded. “On holiday?” 

Thranduil nodded.

“And… what year is it? On that side?” 

“It’s nineteen ninety-nine.” 

“ _Nineteen hundred_ and ninety-nine?” Bard gasped. Thranduil nodded again. “How? How is this possible?” 

“I don’t know. Magic?” Thranduil shrugged. 

“Are you one of the fairy folk?” 

“No.”

“Then what sort of magic is this?”

“I don’t know! I have no idea how this is happening or why. I don’t know anything more than you do.” 

“But you’ve been over here, to my time,” Bard frowned and studied his hands again, picking dirt from beneath his fingernails. Then he looked at Thranduil again and asked, “Did it hurt? Crossing over?” 

“No,” Thranduil shrugged. I didn’t feel anything.” He said, though this wasn’t strictly true. He knew Bard was asking about a physical sensation, and so he didn’t mention the dizzying excitement, the knowledge that he was seeing something nobody else in the world had a chance to see. 

Bard nodded tersely and squared his jaw, as though that had made the decision for him. “I’m coming through,” he said, and Thranduil didn’t argue. He stood up as Bard began to pick his way over the ashes on the hearth. He stood to his full height beside him, and Thranduil tried to imagine the world as he must be seeing it. 

The room was almost unrecognisable from Bard’s bedroom. The windows offered an unobstructed view of the forest outside and the smooth tarmac of the drive. the walls were papered, a ceiling fan hung idly above them, lightbulbs burned brightly.

When he was done looking around the room, Bard turned to stand in front of Thranduil and began to study him, too. Thranduil tried to imagine what he must look like to Bard; he wore jeans and a hoodie, and his T-shirt had a faded Coca Cola design on the front. 

“How old are you?” Bard asked. 

“Eighteen. How old are you?” 

“Seventeen,” he replied. He seemed just as out of place in here as Thranduil had felt in Bard’s room. Now that he was more calm, Thranduil was able to take in more of the details of him. He wore the same clothes he had the night before, or at least they looked the same. His long waistcoat was laced loosely down the centre of his chest, his shirtsleeves hung limp around his wrists, and below that he wore a pair of breeches that ended just below his knees. Thick woollen stockings covered his feet and the rest of his legs.

“I’m not dreaming, am I?” asked Bard.

“I don’t think so,” Thranduil answered. “Not unless I’m dreaming too.” 

“How is it so warm in the house without a fire?” 

“We’ve got gas heating in every room,” Thranduil pointed to the heater lining the far wall. 

“What else has changed? Since my time?” 

“God,” Thranduil sighed, “So much. Everything, really.” 

“Show me,” Bard said, turning to him with a wide-eyed, pleading expression.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” Thranduil argued.

“Please,” Bard begged, “I need to see it.” 

Thranduil sighed, but eventually he nodded. “Alright, but you can’t stay long. My parents will be back from town any minute.” 

Thranduil followed Bard as he explored the cottage, keeping one eye trained on the windows, watching for his parents’ car. 

“What is this?” Bard asked. Thranduil turned to see him standing in the living room, staring at the television. 

“It’s a telly— a television. It shows broadcasted programs, though this one’s a bit old.” Old was an understatement. The thing was practically ancient, with dials instead of buttons, but that wouldn’t really make a difference if you didn’t know what a telly was. Thranduil turned it on and waited for the screen to light up, revealing a daytime paid commercial for Tupperware. 

“They’re like… paintings that move,” Bard said, kneeling slowly until he was at a height with the screen, leaning in close, eyes wide. 

“Yeah, basically, except that instead of paintings, the image is captured on film.” 

“How are they moving?” 

“It’s… complicated, I suppose. There are thousands of pictures, all taken one after another. And when they flash quickly on the screen, they look like they’re moving.” Bard was still kneeling in front of the telly, face inching closer and closer. He reached up to touch the screen and Thranduil could hear the static leaping and crackling beneath his fingers. Bard snatched his hand away as though he’d been burned, studying his fingertips and then the screen before he looked up at Thranduil. 

His eyes were wide and his mouth was parted slightly, and something flipped giddily in Thranduil’s gut. 

Thranduil followed him into the kitchen, which he wouldn’t have thought would be more exciting then seeing a television for the first time. But Bard marvelled at the refrigerator, the toaster, and everything in between. He opened the oven and flipped light switches and let the cold air from the freezer waft over his face. He looked so happy, so in awe of everything Thranduil took for granted every day, and Thranduil’s stomach flipped again. 

He supposed it was rather remarkable when all you were used to having was a fire to cook with. 

But then Thranduil heard the sound of a car pulling up the drive, and he had to physically pull Bard away from the open refrigerator and toward the stairs. 

“What is _that_?!” Bard cried. He’d come grinding to a halt in front of the door and was peering out the window beside it, breath fogging up the glass as he stared. Thranduil looked over his shoulder. 

“That’s my parents, we need to go.” 

“But what are they inside of?” Bard argued. “What is _that_ ,” He pointed to the car that had just come to a halt in the drive. Thranduil heard the engine cut off and saw the passenger’s door open. 

“It’s a car. An automobile. It’s like… a carriage without horses.” 

“Then how does it move?” 

“It’s got an engine or a motor that moves the wheels. Come on, we have to go before they see you.” 

“It moves itself?”

“Yes, it does, now _come on_!” 

Thranduil finally was able to pull Bard away from the door and shove him ahead of him up the stairs by the time his parents came inside. 

“Thranduil,” his mother called, and Thranduil paused, motioning subtly for Bard to go without him. 

“Yeah mum?” 

“Who’s your friend?” she asked, smiling gently as she pulled her gloves off her hands.

“No one, he’s just a bloke from the town.” 

“Will he be staying for dinner?” Bard had made it to the doorway to Thranduil’s bedroom, but no further. He stood in the narrow corridor, his billowing shirtsleeves and broad shoulders reaching nearly from one wall to the other. Thranduil tried to ignore the fact that he looked almost hopeful. 

“No, I don’t think so. He has to get back home,” he said, and climbed the rest of the stairs. He nudged Bard inside the bedroom, and if he seemed disappointed, Thranduil pretended not to notice.

[ - ]

Bard did not cross over to Thranduil’s time again while he was there, though he showered Thranduil with a million more questions as they sat across from each other in front of the fireplace, one metre and three hundred and sixty-nine years apart.

He asked about electricity, how it was made and how it could possibly reach every house. He asked about television programs and had an endless stream of questions about cars. Thranduil sat patiently and answered everything he could, which admittedly, wasn’t much on some topics. He asked some questions of his own, but mostly he enjoyed Bard’s company, and by the time his holiday was over, Thranduil found himself very badly wanting to stay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had considered setting Bard's timeline even earlier (like 15th century because I'm obsessed with the Raven Cycle and therefore with Owain Glyndŵr), but I wanted for it to be plausible that Bard's house was still standing in modern times.
> 
> I couldn't find much on suitable exclamatory phrases and idioms common in the 17th century, so I just kind of did my best. also, I recognise that Bard and his family would not have been speaking english (in fact, most of the formal education during this time was only offered in English, despite the vast majority of the country speaking exclusively Welsh).
> 
> Brân is a name I found during my brief research on Welsh mythology, and I though it was a good fit for Bard's brother.


	3. 2005

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil returns to Pembroke for a third time, this time with his wife and new son.

[ 3 ]

Years passed before Thranduil visited the cottage again. It was Madelyn’s idea that they visit Thranduil’s childhood holiday spot, and once she had, Thranduil found himself unable to think of anything but returning, of the fireplace and seeing Bard again.

Legolas was only two months old and could’t sleep on his own, and so Thranduil’s old room was left empty while the three of them slept in the master bedroom. 

Thranduil could feel the presence of the fireplace like a hand on his shoulder, just waiting for him to turn around and address it. He ignored it the first day, leaving the door to the spare room closed and exploring the grounds with Madelyn and Legolas instead. But when Legolas went down for his nap on the second day, and Madelyn had fallen asleep as well, Thranduil couldn’t ignore the pull anymore. 

He stood at the door to the old bedroom, hand resting on the doorknob for what felt like hours, unable to bring himself to turn it. When he finally did and the door creaked open, Thranduil stepped slowly into the room, suddenly overcome with the surreal sensation of stepping back through time, as he had done the last time he was here. Nothing had changed, not even the old quilt thrown over the bed. He sat on the bed, eyes roving over everything in the room until finally, he couldn’t avoid it anymore. 

The fireplace stood, set into the wall and watching over the bedroom as if it were a living entity. It seemed to watch Thranduil just as he watched it, both of them waiting for the inevitable moment when Thranduil would stand up and move closer. 

And he did— of course he did. 

He ran his palm along the mantel, the stone feeling just as rough against his hand as it had when he’d first played here as a child. Finally, when he felt he could put it off no longer, Thranduil sat down before the hearth. He curled his feet beneath him and held his breath as he peered inside. It was dark, as it always appeared to be when Thranduil first looked in. But the longer Thranduil sat, the more the details became clearer. 

At first it was akin to watching an artist paint; the darkness began to coalesce into shadows, and the shadows began to take shape. And then, all at once it became clear. Thranduil could see the squat wooden frame of the bed, and the lumpy mattress on top. There were items of clothing strewn around the room, breeches and jerkins and undershirts.

Thranduil felt like he was in a dream; he was hyperaware of every sensation, of the way his heart beat against his sternum, and the way the stone bit into his ankles as he sat. And then the picture before him began to move. A man strode into the room in a pair of heavy boots, and Thranduil's pulse leapt. It was Bard. He knew it was. He watched in silence as he dashed around the room, lifted the pillow and upended the blankets on the bed, snatched clothes off a wooden chair in the corner and pulled open the chest of drawers. Then he knelt beside the bed and bent to peer beneath it, and Thranduil called out to him. 

“Bard.” 

Silence hung between them, the seconds stretching until each one cold span the length of the years that separated them. Bard was frozen beside the bed and Thranduil waited for him to turn, each breath rattling in his chest so loudly he was sure Bard could hear it. 

And then he turned, slowly, and met Thranduil’s eyes. Neither of them spoke for another long moment. Bard stared at him with wide eyes and Thranduil sat there, drinking in the sight of him. 

“Thranduil?” Bard rose from the floor and crossed the room slowly before coming to rest at the edge of the hearth. 

The years had been good to him, Thranduil could see. His shoulders, which had been wide and wiry for a boy of 17 were now strong and built of muscle. His hair was pulled back from his face, and a flattering line of facial hair grew along his jaw and above his lip. He seemed too big, somehow, to be sitting in front of a fireplace like they had when they were boys, and Thranduil imagined he must look just as odd, but there was something about seeing Bard now that Thranduil couldn’t quite reconcile with the boy he’d known. 

“I was beginning to worry I’d dreamt you,” Bard said. His voice was soft and his eyes, though fixed on Thranduil, seemed far away. “I was beginning to worry you’d never come back.” 

“I’ve been…” Thranduil hesitated. _Busy_ wasn’t exactly the right word for the way his life had changed over the past four years. “So much has happened since… since the last time.” 

“Tell me,” Bard said after a moment. 

“Tell you what?” 

“Everything,” Bard whispered. “I want to hear about it. All of it.” 

And so Thranduil did. He told him about how his mother had died while he was away at his last year of university, how his father hadn’t called to tell him until days later, just in time for Thranduil to make it to the funeral. “I tried to come back here, after. I wanted to see you, to talk to you, but my father had rented the house to another family, and they stayed here for months and months.” Thranduil didn’t elaborate further; didn’t tell Bard that he’d been the only person Thranduil had wanted to talk to, that he hadn’t felt like he could talk to anybody else or that Bard had been his only true friend. Thranduil didn’t tell him, and Bard didn’t ask. 

But then he told him about Madelyn, the sharp and witty girl he’d known as a boy who had come back to London after his mother had passed. He told Bard about how she’d carried him through the worst of his grief, how he’d finally found someone to confide in, and how happy he’d been since they’d been married. He told him about Legolas, about what a happy and beautiful child he was. 

“You have a son,” Bard said, as though he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “That’s… that’s wonderful,” he whispered, eyes trained on the frayed seam of his cuffed sleeve. “Where are they now?” 

“Asleep,” Thranduil replied. “What about you?” he asked, eager to shift the conversation to something that didn’t make him feel as though he’d let Bard down, somehow. “Tell me what’s happened on your side.” 

Bard seemed less interested in recounting tales of his own life and more interested in hearing stories about Thranduil’s, but eventually Bard told him about the fever that had taken his brother not long after Thranduil left. He spoke of how his father was growing older and weaker, and was unable to work, leaving Bard to take over the house and the earning of money. Thranduil asked if that was where he had been in such a hurry to get to when Thranduil had stopped him. 

Bard shook his head, averting his eyes again. “I have a… an engagement.” 

“An engagement?” Thranduil started. “What sort of engagement?” 

“I’m meeting a girl— a woman from town.” Bard’s cheeks had gone ruddy with a fierce blush. “We have plans to have lunch by the pond.”

“So it’s a date, then?” Thranduil asked, pushing down the small stab of jealousy provoked by the thought of Bard out on a date, and tried to get a rise out of Bard instead. 

“A what?” 

“A date. A romantic outing. A… a courtship? Is that a word you use there?” It was easier, sometimes, to think of the fireplace as an ordinary doorway, or as a window looking out over a place, rather than an impossible portal through time. “What’s her name?” 

“Rhiannon.” Bard’s blush only deepened. “She’s a very lovely girl. My father has been speaking with her parents. I think he intends for us to be married.” 

Married. The thought should not have bothered Thranduil— he was married and had started a family already. He had no right to feel so… betrayed at the thought of Bard finding the same. But he couldn’t say that. He knew he couldn’t. “That’s wonderful,” Thranduil said, though it tasted too much of a lie on his tongue. “Do you like her?” 

“She’s a very lovely girl.” 

“You said that already,” Thranduil said. “Do you _like_ her?” Bard looked as though he were about to speak, but Legolas began to cry in the next room, and Thranduil instinctively jumped to his feet at the sound. “I’ll be right back,” he said. 

“I should be going,” Bard said, climbing to his feet as Thranduil paused by the mantel. He nodded, and tried to hide his disappointment. 

“I hope you have a good time,” he said, trying his best to really mean it. “Don’t stay out too late, and be sure to use protection,” he teased. “You can tell me all about it when you get back.”

“The things you say, I swear,” Bard chuckled as he shook his head. “Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how different our worlds are.” 

“It’s the same world,” Thranduil mused, looking around at the room he still remembered so well. “Same house, even. The only difference is a few hundred years.” He’d meant for it to be a joke, to ease some of the tension that had cropped up between them, but all it did was make Thranduil uncomfortably aware of just how far away Bard really was. 

“You should go to your son. Let your wife sleep.” 

Thranduil nodded, though he still paused, hoping to prolong the moment. But then Bard walked away, stepping out of Thranduil’s line of sight and into the darkening room beyond. 

He crept into the bedroom and scooped Legolas up from his cot, shushing him quietly as Madelyn stirred. “Thran?” She murmured sleepily. 

“It’s okay, I’ve got him. You just rest.” 

“There’s milk in the refrigerator,” she said, rolling over and burrowing deeper beneath the blankets. Thranduil closed the door softly behind him, carried Legolas down the stairs, and warmed a bottle one-handed. Then he climbed up the stairs again and found an old rocking chair from the corner of the spare room. He pulled it quietly across the floor, careful not to wake Madelyn or disturb Legolas, and set it down in front of the fireplace. 

He sat down, cradling Legolas more comfortably with his head resting in the crook of his elbow, and began to rock gently back and forth. Legolas drank from his bottle for a while before falling contentedly to sleep, his tiny fingers gripping the ends of Thranduil’s hair. They sat for a while longer, until Thranduil’s eyes grew drowsy and he too, fell asleep.

[ - ]

When he woke, the room was empty and Thranduil was alone. He could hear Legolas babble and Madelyn laugh brightly from downstairs. The fireplace was still dark beside him.

“Your wife is lovely,” Bard said. Thranduil sat up in the rocking chair, rubbing sleep from his eyes. “She came and took Legolas a few minutes ago.”

“You saw her?” Thranduil could see Bard nod in the flickering light of his oil lamp. He wondered how long he’d been sitting there, but didn’t mention it. “But she didn’t see you?” 

“No one does. And why would they? Who would look twice at the back of a fireplace?” 

“Me,” Thranduil murmured, his eyes focused on his hands where they lay in his lap. He felt too cold, the warmth of his son’s tiny body fading from his skin. “I do.” 

“You are the only one.” Thranduil looked up to find Bard looking straight back at him. Somehow, he hadn’t considered the possibility of other people stumbling on this fireplace. He felt strangely possessive of this place, of Bard, and of the magic he’d found here. 

“How did your date go?” He asked, not wanting to let his thoughts linger in this melancholy place for too long.

“Fine,” Bard said. He seemed distracted, his eyes unfocused and hanging somewhere over Thranduil’s shoulder. The silence hung heavily between them.

“Are you going to see her again?” Thranduil finally asked.

“Do you think I should see her again?” Bard met Thranduil’s eyes, and they seemed to press upon Thranduil like a weight. 

Thranduil shrugged. “Do you like her?” 

“She’s a very—“ 

“Lovely girl. Yes, you’ve said. But do you like her? Do you think she could make you happy?” 

Bard stared at the logs on the floor of the hearth, as though he could find his answer there. “I think she could, yes.” 

“Then what’s stopping you?” Thranduil felt as though the question left space for an endless list of complications, dangerous, thrilling complications, but the words were out of Thranduil’s mouth before he could even decide whether or not he should say them. He held Bard’s gaze, and this too, felt dangerous, as though they were each daring the other to acknowledge what they were too afraid to name. 

“I don’t know,” Bard finally said, and it felt close enough to the truth that it both terrified and excited Thranduil. 

He thought of the differences between him and Bard, the infinite differences between their lives and their times. He thought of the day Bard had spent here, on his side, thought of the wonder he’d seen on his face and the reluctant way he’d crawled back through the fireplace when Thranduil’s parents had returned. He thought of Bard’s brother, killed too soon by something as small as a fever. He thought of Madelyn and of Legolas, and how, if he’d been able to make this choice years ago, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a moment. 

But he was older now. He had responsibilities. He had a son he adored and a wife he could not bear to hurt. Thranduil closed his eyes, aware that it was a forfeit of whatever struggle he and Bard had been engaged in, but unable to bring himself to regret it. 

“You should see her again,” He whispered. 

The room was silent, and Thranduil wondered if Bard had stood up and left. But when he opened his eyes, Bard was still there, sitting on the other side of the fireplace. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, seeming to think better of whatever he’d been about to say. Instead he simply nodded his head, stood, and walked away. 

Thranduil knew this was for the best, but he still felt cruel, like he’d hurt Bard somehow. It was silly, because Thranduil didn’t know for a certainty that Bard felt the same way he did— didn’t even know for a certainty _what_ he felt at all. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t ask Bard to put his life on hold while Thranduil lived happily with his family. It wouldn’t be fair. 

Thranduil had done the right thing, but it left him feeling like complete shit.

[ - ]

Thranduil didn’t see Bard again during that holiday. The fireplace was cold and dark every time Thranduil came to sit beside it, and the room on the other side was empty. He and Madelyn left after the week was up, but not before Thranduil spent one final hour sitting by the fireplace, waiting for Bard.

In the end, he wrote a note. He’d begun writing half a hundred times, only to tear the page out and start over. There was so much he wanted to say— explanations and apologies and confessions— but nothing he could come up with seemed like enough. In the end, the message he settled on was simple. He crawled into the fireplace, heedless of the ash that stained his trousers, and left the folded piece of paper at the edge of Bard’s hearth. The words inside simply read: 

_Please be happy._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rhiannon is another name found in Welsh mythology.


	4. 2009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil seeks Bard out after Madelyn's death.

[ 4 ]

Madelyn began to get sick not long after her twenty-fifth birthday. At first it was mostly lethargy and fatigue. She slept longer and longer during the night and into the day while Legolas, barely a year old, required more and more supervision as he learned to walk. Gradually she lost her appetite, and soon she was so thin Thranduil wondered how he hadn’t noticed her decline sooner. 

Three doctors failed to find what was wrong, each offering treatments for her symptoms that never helped for longer than a few days. Thranduil finally took her to A&E when abdominal pain woke her in the middle of the night, and there, they finally found the answer. 

What Thranduil hoped would give them some relief only twisted the knife deeper. It was a mass, large and malignant and so aggressive that chemotherapy could only slow its progress. Soon it had spread from her spleen to her lymph nodes and to her lungs, and the doctors said there was nothing more to do besides to make her comfortable.

[ - ]

Four years after they’d left, Thranduil and Legolas returned to the Pembroke house, this time without Madelyn. Legolas was withdrawn and solemn, unable to understand what had happened to his mother except that he would never see her again. He’d never truly been able to know her, and now he never would. He’d begun sleeping in his mother’s place in Thranduil’s bed, clutching tightly to the pillows that still smelled like her. Thranduil moved numbly through the world, helpless to do anything for his son besides hold him when he cried.

The cottage was still exactly the same, even nearly twenty years after Thranduil had first seen it. He and Legolas arrived late in the afternoon and immediately settled into the master bedroom, both too weary to do anything else. Legolas fell into a fitful sleep, but Thranduil lay awake. He thought of Madelyn, of the days they’d spent here years before, of her bright smile and the way she’d kept her spirits up even until the end. 

He felt so incredibly, inconsolably lonely. It yawned inside his chest like a physical hole, slowly pulling Thranduil apart. 

He stood from the bed after hours of trying and failing to sleep. He moved slowly, quietly, unwilling to disturb Legolas, even if holding his son might make him feel better. Instead, he crept from the bedroom and into the spare room, his eyes sliding over the old stone mantel and hearth like it was an old friend. He sat down beside it, though he couldn’t bring himself to look inside, not yet. He sat there, facing the far wall, holding tightly to the possibility that Bard might appear at any moment and unwilling to shatter the illusion by turning to find an empty room on the other side of the fireplace. 

Thranduil heard a child cry and he nearly leapt to his feet, thinking Legolas had woken to find him gone. But the cry was a less familiar sound to Thranduil, and he realised it was coming from an infant, not a boy of four. Finally, he looked through the fireplace, eyes well-adjusted to the dark, and saw Bard enter from the corridor, steps slow and exaggerated. He held a bundle of cotton and wool in his arms and he was speaking in low, melodic tones. 

This was Bard’s child, Thranduil realised as the little bundle in his arms continued to fuss. Thranduil watched with rapt attention as Bard walked slow circuits around the room, bouncing the child in his arms, his soft words devolving into gentle hums with only the barest hint of a tune. 

It wasn’t until Bard sat on the bed that he noticed Thranduil, still sitting on the cold stone in the spare room. Thranduil smiled, only then realising that he’d been crying. He sniffed and wiped tears from his cheeks as Bard stood and walked toward the fireplace. They sat in silence for a moment while Thranduil drank him in, eyes cataloguing the changes: his hair was longer and his beard was a bit fuller. There were subtle lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes, the evidence of a thousand smiles flickering in the dim light. 

“What name did you choose?” Thranduil asked, nodding to the baby who slept in Bard’s arms. 

“Tilda,” Bard said, the name lighting up his eyes and revealing the dimples in his cheeks. “She’s our third,” he added. 

“Rhiannon?” Thranduil asked. Bard nodded, and a twinge of gladness tugged at Thranduil’s heart, his happiness for Bard overpowering his own loss for a moment. “I’m happy for you,” he said, and even though he meant it sincerely, Bard frowned at him as though he knew something was wrong. 

“How is Legolas? Is he here?” 

“He’s asleep in the next room.” 

“And Madelyn?” 

Thranduil steeled himself against the tears that threatened him again, swallowed thickly and dropped his gaze to the logs and ash that sat between him and Bard, a heap of ruin sitting in the exact spot their two worlds touched. He shook his head. 

“Oh Thranduil,” Bard said, his voice saturated with sorrow that only made Thranduil’s throat ache as he fought the urge to cry. He heard the sound of feet shuffling on stone, and then Bard’s voice drifted through to him again, this time closer. “Here, hold her for a moment.” 

“What? Why, what are you—“ 

“Because I’m coming over and I don’t want to drop her. And because it’s nearly impossible to cry while looking at a newborn, so come on.” 

Thranduil shuffled closer and took the small bundle from Bard’s arms, trying to ignore the indignity of passing a baby through a fireplace. But Bard was right; the tears eased as he looked at her plump, smooth cheeks, her round button nose and the tiny fingers that gripped at her blankets. He held her to his chest and tried to remember if Legolas had ever been this small. 

Then Bard was beside him, hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck and drawing him close. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his breath brushing against Thranduil’s hair. 

Thranduil sat there, holding Tilda in his arms while Bard leaned over his knees to hold him close. It was clumsy and awkward, but Thranduil couldn’t deny the comfort of being held, the strong slope of Bard’s back where Thranduil clutched at the fabric of his shirt. 

He sniffed and Bard sat up straight beside him, hand still holding Thranduil at the base of his skull, his thumb swiping tenderly against the angle of his jaw.

“She’s beautiful,” Thranduil said, looking from Tilda to Bard with blurred vision. 

“Aye, she’s perfect,” Bard agreed with a smile.

“Are you happy?” 

Bard met his eyes, the smile lingering as he studied Thranduil. He nodded. “Aye,” he said again, a new smile deepening the laughter lines around his eyes and bringing his dimples into full view. “I am.” 

“I’m glad,” said Thranduil, even as tears welled in his eyes again.

[ - ]

Thranduil stayed at the cottage for a long time, days stretching into weeks, until he’d lost count. Even though Bard was kept busy enough with Tilda and his two older children that there was hardly any time left in his day for Thranduil, he still sat by the fireplace and waited for him. And Bard always came, even if it was only to watch silently as Thranduil read a bedtime story to Legolas, unseen in the shadows beyond the logs burning gently in the fireplace.

“He’s wonderful,” Bard said to him one night. Legolas had fallen asleep in his lap while Thranduil had read to him. The hearth between them was clean; Thranduil had swept up the ashes the day before, and the spring weather was mild enough that Bard didn’t need a fire to keep his family warm at night.

“I’m worried about him,” Thranduil confessed. “He can’t fall asleep unless I’m there with him, and he’s withdrawn during the day. He doesn’t want to play outside or with other children from town. He’s stopped asking for his mother, but I think it’s only because he knows it upsets me.” 

“He’s a lot like you.” 

“What makes you say that?” Thranduil asked. He saw so much of Madelyn in Legolas that it was difficult sometimes to see anything else. 

“There’s more going on inside that little head of his than he lets on. He hides the way he’s feeling, lets it consume him from the inside rather than share it.” 

“You think you know me so well?” Asked Thranduil. The words might have been sharp, but his tone held no hint of bitterness. 

“I know you well enough.”

He met Bard’s eyes through the fireplace and held his gaze, unable to say anything in response but unwilling to allow his grief to alienate him from Bard the way it had alienated him from everyone else. No one had known him as well as Madelyn had, but this was Bard, and Bard wasn’t just anyone. 

Legolas stirred in his lap and mumbled drowsily in his sleep, his little fingers clutching tighter to the soft wool of Thranduil’s jumper. Thranduil brushed the whips of golden hair away from his face and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead. 

“Is it good for him, to be here?” Asked Bard, a pained sort of frown twisting his features. “To be isolated from his peers and from the world? Is it good for you?” 

“How can you say that?” Thranduil asked, trying to mask the sting of Bard’s words but sure he was failing miserably. “How can you even ask that?” 

“Because, Thranduil. You would stay here forever if you could. And while I would be glad to have you here, to always have a friend to turn to, I know you would only continue hiding from your loss without ever moving past it. You can’t live your life sitting in front of a fireplace, waiting for someone who lived and died hundreds of years before you were born.” 

“Bard,” Thranduil gasped, “You’re not dead, you’re _right here_.”

“I am here. And I’ll stay here. This is my home, my family. I have to stay here, but you don’t, Thranduil. You have a life outside of this room, a life separate from this place, and you owe it to yourself to go and _live_ it.” 

Thranduil broke away from Bard’s gaze, the knowledge that Bard was right prickling at the corners of his eyes. He didn’t want to leave this place, didn’t want to leave Bard. He couldn’t imagine going back to his home in London, a place without Bard and now without Madelyn. 

“Do you remember what you told me years ago? I asked you if I should go and see Rhiannon again. It was crazy, but I wanted you to tell me not to. I prayed, hoped against hope that you would ask me to stay, that I could leave this place and go and live with you in your time.” 

“I wanted to,” Thranduil whispered. 

“I know you did,” Bard’s voice was fragile, his words beginning to crack around the edges, and when Thranduil met his eyes again he could see the glassy sheen of unshed tears. “But you knew, even when I didn’t, that I needed to stay. Here, on my side, in my own life. You knew I needed to be happy on my own, and now I need to do you the same courtesy.” 

“Courtesy,” Thranduil spat. “It’s cruel.” 

“I thought so too, for a while. I hated you for months after that, but I found my happiness. I found my family. I can’t hold you back simply because of my own selfishness.” 

“And what about me?” Thranduil pleaded. “Aren’t I allowed to be selfish? Just this once, just now?” 

“You have Legolas.” Bard sniffed, eyes trained on a small tear in his breeches. “You need to do what’s best for him, and for yourself. You need to find a way to be happy again.” 

A sob bubbled up in Thranduil’s throat, all his grief and frustration cinching tight around his chest and his throat, threatening to choke him. But he knew Bard was right. The same way he’d known he couldn’t hold Bard back years before, he knew this was what he had to do. But that knowledge did nothing to ease the pressure in his chest or stem the flow of his tears. 

“Ada?” Thranduil rubbed harshly at his eyes as Legolas blinked at him blearily. “Ada don’t cry,” he said, pulling himself upward so he could wrap his little arms around Thranduil’s neck. “Nana would not want us to be sad.” Thranduil held his son tightly to him, letting the warmth of his small body ease the knot in his chest. 

“I know, Legolas. I’m sorry I woke you.” 

“I love you, Ada,” he said, voice muffled against Thranduil’s shoulder. 

“I love you too, Leaf,” Thranduil whispered against his hair. He opened his eyes to see Bard, still sitting by the hearth, a small smile gently curling his lips. “We are going to be okay,” he said to them both. “I promise.”

[ - ]

Thranduil began preparing to leave the next day, but they had been there a long while and he did not rush, and so the process took longer than it might have otherwise. When nightfall came and Thranduil still had to clean the kitchen and empty the refrigerator, he decided it would not hurt to stay another night.

He left the choice of what to eat up to Legolas, and so unsurprisingly, he made pancakes. He could hear his father’s voice telling him pancakes were not a suitable dinner for a growing boy or a grown man, but the smile Legolas gave him made it all worth it. 

They read a story after dinner, Legolas snuggled in Thranduil’s lap while he sat in the old wooden rocking chair. He remembered the first time he’d held Legolas here, in this room and in this chair, and he thought of Bard. 

As if summoned by his thoughts, Thranduil caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he paused his reading to look, he saw Bard in the dim light on the other side of the fireplace. Tiny newborn Tilda was swaddled and asleep in his arms, and they both settled down in front of the hearth. 

He would miss this, when they returned to London. He would miss the simplicity of life here, in this cottage. He would miss the time he spent free of obligation; the time he would waste working at his father’s company was much better spent with Legolas. He would miss Bard. Perhaps he would miss him most of all. Legolas would come home with him when he left, but Bard would stay here and the thought was almost unbearable. 

“Ada, finish the story,” Legolas murmured, tugging at his jumper and breaking Thranduil from his reverie. His cheeks began to heat as he realised that he’d been staring at Bard while his mind had wandered, and he couldn’t tell for how long that had been.

Bard was smirking at him when he chanced another glance in his direction, and Thranduil’s cheeks heated further. He turned his attention back to the book and began to read again.


	5. 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Legolas return to the cottage to find that all is not well.

[ 5 ]

The next time Thranduil visited the Pembroke cottage, it was with the intention of staying for only a couple of days. Legolas was out of school for his Easter holidays, Thranduil’s father had resigned from his place at the head of his company, and Thranduil had decided to go on holiday before taking over in his place.

It was early in April, and the forest on the edge of the garden was bright with colour and life. It had been spring the last time he was here as well, but he’d been so consumed by his grief that he hadn’t noticed. He stood at the end of the drive, looking at the trees, the gentle slope of the garden, the aged facade of the cottage, and he wondered how he could have lost sight of the magic he’d found here when he was a boy. How could he ever have taken the magic of the fireplace for granted without ever truly _seeing it_? 

Legolas broke away and ran down the drive, eager to find adventure as Thranduil had been when he was his age. Thranduil left their bags in the car to retrieve later and followed his son around the grounds, feeling as though he was truly appreciating them for the first time.

It had been five years since he’d last been to the cottage. When he’d left the last time, he’d been broken with grief and filled with a bitter anger. It had taken him this long to come to terms with the world and with Madelyn’s death, and he knew he couldn’t return here until he’d learned to see past it. Now when Legolas asked to hear a story about her, Thranduil could remember how happy they’d been for those few brief years. 

He and Legolas played in the garden long into the afternoon, until the setting sun and the encroaching chill drove them both inside. Legolas chose what they would eat for dinner, and so they made macaroni cheese and Thranduil ate it happily. 

Legolas had long since grown too old for bedtime stories, but he allowed Thranduil to read to him while they sat in front of the fireplace as they had when he was young. 

Thranduil had barely been reading for five minutes when a small, startling voice echoed through the room. Legolas looked about the room for the source of the voice, but Thranduil turned around to look through the fireplace, and he knew immediately something was wrong. There was a little girl kneeling in front of the charred logs in the hearth. She was perhaps five or six, with dark hair and the barest hint of dimples visible on her cheeks, even though her expression was grave and panicked. 

“Fairy man!” she cried, fixing Thranduil with such an intense and desperate gaze that Thranduil’s heart immediately began to race. 

He frowned, confused until he realised who this little girl must be. “Tilda?” He asked, “what’s wrong?” 

“It’s Da! He’s fallen ill and he won’t wake up. Please come quickly, you have to help him!” Tilda disappeared before Thranduil could ask any more questions, leaving him to stare dumbly after her. 

“Ada?” Legolas said from beside him. He’d stopped calling Thranduil by that name years ago, and its reappearance now meant that he must be frightened. 

“Stay here, leaf, I’ll be right back. 

“What’s going on?” 

“I’ll explain everything later, I promise, but right now I need you to stay right here. Can you do that for me?” 

Legolas hesitated for a long moment before nodding. He was nine years old, nearly the same age as Thranduil had been when he’d first seen Bard through the fireplace, but this was a different thing all together. This was not the wonderful discovery of a new friend; this was frightening and terrible. 

Thranduil climbed through the fireplace, scraping his shoulder against the rough stone and staining his hands and his clothes with soot. It seemed to stretch out before him like a tunnel, and he remembered thinking something similar the first time he crawled through, when he was eighteen. He emerged in the bedroom he’d seen all those years before, unchanged except for the three children staring wide-eyed at him from beside the bed. 

And there, beneath a mound of quilted blankets, was Bard. His skin was pale and beaded with sweat, his hair damp and clinging to the red skin of his neck. He was hardly recognisable.

“Bard?” Thranduil knelt beside the bed and and touched a hand to Bard’s clammy forehead. He was burning hot and each breath wheezed in his chest. Thranduil pulled his hand out from beneath the covers and felt the staccato beat of his pulse, weak and thready beneath his skin. 

“How long has he been like this?” Thranduil asked, turning to address one of the older children who stood nearby. The boy was practically the spitting image of his father, and nearly the same age as Bard had been when they’d first met as boys. The older girl was tall and willowy, and he knew she must look more like her mother, but he could see hints of Bard in the set of her eyebrows and the colour of her eyes. She was the first to speak. 

“Three days,” she said. Her voice wavered and he could tell she was frightened, but she squared her shoulders bravely and did not shy away. “He’s stopped eating and he won’t get out of bed.” 

Thranduil stood and crossed the room, crouching in front of the fireplace to see Legolas still waiting on the other side. “I need you to go and fetch a pitcher of cold water from the kitchen and bring it to me through here, alright?” 

Legolas looked as though he wanted to argue, but something in Thranduil’s frenzied expression must have told him otherwise. He ran from the room and Thranduil turned back to Bard’s children. 

“What’s your name?” He asked the girl. He knew Bard had mentioned having three children, but Thranduil couldn’t remember him ever mentioning their names. 

“Sigrid,” she said.

“I’m Bain,” the boy added, stepping slightly to the side so that he wasn’t hidden behind his sister. 

“Who are you?” Sigrid asked. “How were you inside our fireplace? And what are you dressed in?” 

“I’m Thranduil. I’m a friend of your Da’s.”

“He’s the fairy man, Sig. The one Da used to tell us about.” 

“There’s no such thing as fairies, Tilda! Those were just stories Da told you when you were a baby!” Sigrid snapped. Tilda frowned deeply and set her feet wide on the floor. Clearly, this was an argument they’d had before. 

“Nevermind that now,” Thranduil told them, “I promise I’ll explain everything later, but right now I need you to fetch some cloth. Towels or rags or whatever you have.”

Sigrid seemed to consider him for a long moment, working her bottom lip between her teeth and frowning deeply, as if she could discern the truth of him if she looked closely enough. Finally, she sighed sharply and strode from the room, and Thranduil could hear her soft footsteps on the stairs. 

Legolas crawled through the fireplace a moment after she’d gone, carrying the pitcher of water in both hands. Thranduil turned to Bain then, and asked, “Can you find me a glass or a cup? Something that he can drink from.” 

Bain nodded and ran from the room, rushing around Sigrid as she returned with a handful of cloth. “What’s wrong with him?” She asked. 

“He has a fever. We need to cool him down,” Thranduil said as he took a strip of fabric and soaked it in the water from the pitcher. He was glad to see that Legolas had followed his instructions and that the water was icy cold. Bard groaned as Thranduil ran the cloth over his forehead and dabbed it gently at the heated skin of his face and neck. Tilda whimpered softly from the foot pf the bed. 

Bain returned with a short clay mug and filled it with water. 

“Offer it to him, but don’t try to force it. Keep the compress on his forehead cold. I’m going to the pharmacy, and I need you to stay here until I return,” Thranduil told them, Legolas most of all. “Don’t leave until I come back, alright? I won’t be gone long.” 

Though none of them were very happy with this plan, all four of them nodded their understanding. Thranduil sighed in relief; his mind was a panicked mess already, and he’d rather not have to worry about his son and Bard’s children wandering off while he was away.

He crawled through the fireplace and ran through the house, snatched his keys up off the table by the door, and ran down the drive to his car. The roads were narrow and winding this far from town, but Thranduil took each turn as quickly as he dared, his heart racing faster with each minute he was away. 

He was out of breath as he stepped through the front doors of the pharmacy, as though he’d run all the way there instead of driving. He tired his best to act normally as he located the pain medications and fever reducers, still frenzied and suddenly overwhelmed by the sheer volume of brands. 

“Something I can help you with?” A short man with curly, unruly hair had appeared at Thranduil’s side. He wore a waistcoat with a garish pin that read ‘Hi my name is Bilbo. How may I help you?’

Thranduil sighed, half relieved to have someone to help him in his panicked state, and part annoyed that he had to put effort into having a polite conversation and waste time with chit-chat. “What’s the strongest fever reducer you’ve got?” 

“Oh no, I’m sorry,” Bilbo said. “Do you have a little boy or girl at home who’s sick? Pardon my intrusion, but you have the panicked look of a new father.” 

“No, no, not my son. It’s my— my friend,” Thranduil stammered. Bilbo gave him a sideways look which, paired with the barest hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth, told Thranduil that he did not think Bard was just a _friend_. Thranduil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“Right, well, Paracetamol should do just fine for bringing down a fever. Just how high is it, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“I don’t know, actually,” Thranduil realised. He hadn’t even thought to take Bard’s temperature. “I don’t have a thermometer.” 

“We have some available. Simple under-the-tongue, or we’ve got a few ear and forehead models as well, if you prefer that.” 

“Simple is fine,” Thranduil mumbled, and picked up an oral thermometer and a bottle of Paracetamol. On second thought, he put the bottle back on the shelf and chose the extra strength, instead. 

“If that’s all, I can take care of you at the register whenever you’re ready.” 

Relieved, Thranduil followed Bilbo to the register, noticing again how very incredibly short he was. Thranduil cut short Bilbo’s further attempts at small talk and probing questions about his _friend_. He thanked him for his help and rushed back out to the car. 

By the time he returned to the cottage, nearly half an hour had passed. He sprinted up the stairs, hardy pausing to make sure the front door latched. He paused when he reached the fireplace, taking a second to get his breathing under control— the children were frightened enough already, and they didn’t need to see Thranduil on the verge of panic. 

Everything was more or less how he’d left it. Sigrid and Bain and Tilda were crowded around Bard’s bed and Legolas stood a few paces away. They all looked relieved to see him. Thranduil pulled the thermometer from its packaging, ignored the instructions printed on the back, and let it sit in Bard’s mouth while he opened the bottle of Paracetamol. 

“More water please, Bain.” 

Bain looked grateful for something to do, but Sigrid stepped hastily forward. “What is that? What are you doing to him?!” 

“It’s a thermometer. It measures heat, and it will tell me how high your Da’s fever is.” 

“And those?” Sigrid pointed to the pills Thranduil had shaken out into his palm. 

“These will help to bring the fever down.” 

“How do I know that’s what it is? You could be giving him anything.” 

Thranduil tried not to show his frustration— he’d already wasted enough time talking to bloody Bilbo at the pharmacy, and they shouldn’t waste any more. He tossed the pills into his own mouth, and swallowed them with water. “See? They’re safe, I promise.” Perhaps they would help to ease the headache that was growing behind his eyes.

“This is— this is madness,” Sigrid said, dragging her fingers through her hair. It was tied back with a ribbon, but enough of it had fallen out that Thranduil could tell she’d done it several times already. “I don’t even know you and yet you’re here in our house, having just crawled through the bloody fireplace like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do, and you just expect me to trust you?” 

Thranduil took a deep breath. “I understand this is very frightening for you. I know this is strange and it seems completely impossible. But your Da is very sick. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you know that already. It’s a dangerous illness, but where I’m from we’ve figured out how to treat it.” 

“And where is that?” 

“London.” 

“You’re mad if you expect me to believe that.” 

“It’s true. It’s not the whole truth, but I can tell you about all of it later. Right now we can’t waste any more time,” Thranduil said, imploring her to, if not trust him, then to at least let him help. 

Sigrid looked from her father to Thranduil and back again. She was younger than Legolas, but the distressed creases around her eyes made her look years older. “Alright,” she said at last. “Do it. Help him.” 

Thranduil sighed, relief rushing through him as he tapped two more tablets onto his palm. He took the thermometer from Bard’s mouth. It read 41 degrees, and Thranduil tossed it onto the bed with a grimace. He lifted Bard’s head gently, propping him up so that he could swallow the pills more easily. 

Bard gulped greedily at the cold water and swallowed the pills without any trouble, and Thranduil felt himself finally begin to relax. Now they just had to wait. 

“Is he going to be alright?” Tilda asked in her tiny voice, clutching tightly to her sister’s skirts. 

“I think so,” Thranduil said. He took the cloth from Bard’s forehead and soaked it in cold water again, dabbing at the sweat beading on his neck and face. 

“Rhiannon?” Bard groaned. His breath still sounded laboured and his eyes moved rapidly beneath his closed lids. 

“No, Bard, it’s Thranduil,” he soothed. “You’ll feel better soon.” 

“Rhiannon,” Bard whispered again, and Thranduil frowned.

He turned to the children standing by the foot of the bed and asked, “Where is your mother?” 

Sigrid’s face paled and Bain looked abruptly away. “She’s gone,” said Tilda. 

“When?” He asked numbly.

“Near three months ago,” Sigrid answered, lips tight and eyes fixed on the quilt where it tented over Bard’s feet. 

“Oh,” Thranduil breathed, overcome with fresh a fresh wave of grief, feeling angry and helpless at the world, at the _unfairness_ of it all. “I’m so sorry.” 

“My mum is gone too,” Legolas said. He hadn’t spoken since Thranduil had returned, but he stepped away from the wall now, and came to stand beside Thranduil. “I was probably ‘round your age when she died.” he said to Tilda. Tears welled in Thranduil’s eyes at the look on his son’s face. He was only a boy still, but he looked so grown up. 

All at once, Thranduil was struck with the feeling that he was losing his son, slowly, just as he had lost his wife. Just as he’d nearly lost Bard. He felt crushed beneath the weight of the knowledge that either one of them could be taken from him at any moment. Rationally, he knew he was being foolish; they were both there in the room with him. Legolas was still only nine years old and Bard’s fever would come down with the Paracetamol, but suddenly it wasn’t enough. He held his arm out to Legolas and pulled him close, relieved when his son didn’t try to pull away as he might have under more normal circumstances. 

But these weren’t normal circumstances, and Legolas clung to him while Thranduil clutched him just as tightly. 

Sigrid and Bain and Tilda watched them, all in different states of unease, but their grief was plain. “Come and sit by him,” said Thranduil gently. “Let him know you’re here. He’ll be better soon.” 

He tried his best to sound confidant, but his mind was still whirling. What would have happened if he hadn’t been at the cottage? If he’d arrived a day later? He knew how dangerous a fever was in this time. Would Bard have survived if Thranduil hadn’t been able to bring medicine? What would have happened to Sigrid and Bain and Tilda if both of their parents had died? He looked to his son again, and it was all too easy to imagine what would have happened to him if Thranduil had let his grief consume him after Madelyn’s death. 

But Thranduil had had Bard to help him through his grief. Who had Bard had to help him through his? 

Thranduil clenched his teeth and averted his eyes, focusing on soaking the rags in the cold water again. He lay the compress on Bard’s forehead again and tried to school his expression.

He didn’t have to worry about what might have happened if he hadn’t been there when Tilda had called for help. He was here now, and Bard _would_ recover. He had to: Thranduil felt as though he stood on the edge of something dark and bottomless, and he could feel the ground tremble and quake beneath him. 

He didn’t know what he would do if he lost Bard now.

[ - ]

Later that night, Thranduil crawled back through the fireplace to gather blankets from the bedrooms and the linen closet. Then he handed them off to Legolas and they all stayed in Bard’s small bedroom.

He told them about how he had met their father when they were both boys, and about how they’d discovered that they were living in the same place, but in different times. He could tell Sigrid and Bain were still doubtful. Even Legolas didn’t seem to believe him completely, despite the fact that he’d crossed over into another time just as Thranduil had. But Tilda accepted his explanation in the easy way that children do, all too eager to believe the world kept its own secrets and magic. 

Bard's children shared the large bedroom across the hall, and Legolas slept in front of the fireplace, curled inside the blankets they’d brought from the cottage in their own time. Thranduil stayed awake most of the night, watching the uneven rise of Bard’s chest and soothing him whenever he stirred. He sat beside him on the thin mattress, helping him to drink, changing the damp cloth on his forehead and telling him stories from the time he’d spent away. 

Dawn broke with a weak grey light, the sky heavy with clouds and threatening a storm. Sigrid woke not long after. She crept into the small bedroom and stood beside her father’s bed. She looked at Thranduil where he sat on the floor, studying him. 

“I know you don’t trust me,” said Thranduil. “I don’t really expect you to. I probably wouldn’t trust me either, if I were in your position.” 

“My father told me the same stories he told Tilda. About the fairy man who lived inside the fireplace.” 

“He used to think I was a wood elf who’d been trapped in the trees he’d cut down for firewood,” he laughed. 

“He told us that, too.” She offered him a small smile. 

“Did he tell you I met his brother, Brân? He was a lot like Tilda. He had no reason to doubt magic, or to mistrust a boy who had appeared in his fireplace. But you’ve had to grow up much more quickly,” he guessed. 

“Da tries so hard to be strong. To care for us on his own, but it’s hard on him. I do what I can to help.” 

“You’re very brave,” Thranduil told her. “I know how hard it is to try and pick up the pieces after losing someone you love. Your Da helped me a great deal. I wish I could have been there for him in the same way.” 

“I—“ Sigrid paused and frowned, seeming to choose her next words. “I am glad you came when you did. He’s been so ill and I was so afraid that we— that he would—“ Her words were choked off with a heaving sob. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand and wrapped her other arm around herself. Thranduil stood and reached out to her, and she all but collapsed against him. He held her while she cried, rubbing a soothing hand over her back. 

“Sig?” The voice was hoarse and weak, but they both heard it. 

“Da!” Sigrid cried and fell to her knees beside the bed. “Oh, Da we’ve been so worried about you. How are you feeling?” 

“You shouldn’t worry so much about me, darlin’. I told you I’d be alright in a few days.” 

“You are so stubborn, I swear!” she laughed. “Tilda found help for you.” 

“What?” Bard frowned at his eldest daughter and looked toward the door leading out to the hall. “Did you call a doctor? Sig, I told you—“ 

“Not a doctor,” Sigrid said. 

“A fairy,” Thranduil added helpfully. 

Bard frowned again and searched for a moment before looking up to see Thranduil standing beside Sigrid. “Thranduil?” He asked, as though he worried he was still dreaming. “You’re here.” 

“Tilda called through the fireplace. It’s lucky that I was here at all, we only just arrived yesterday. 

“You really are magic, aren’t you?” Bard whispered in a way that made Thranduil think perhaps he hadn’t meant to say the words out loud. 

“No magic. Just some modern medicine and some very good timing.”

[ - ]

Bard continued to improve as the day wore on. He was sitting up in his bed and drinking water on his own by midday, and was able to sip at a bowl of soup Sigrid had made for dinner. He continued to strengthen through the next day, but Thranduil was hesitant to leave, using Bard’s scheduled doses of Paracetamol as an excuse to stay.

Legolas played with Bard’s children, even going so far as to borrow some of Bain’s clothes— though he was significantly taller than Bain was— so that they could go outdoors when the rain had stopped. They went back through the fireplace after night fell the second day, Legolas to find some toys to bring back and share, while Thranduil double checked that the doors were locked and gathered some food for the six of them. 

When he returned, Legolas was playing with his Game Boy, showing Tilda and Bain how to play Tetris while they looked on in amazement. Thranduil rolled his eyes— of all the toys Legolas could have chosen, why did it have to be electronic? But he recognised the futility of trying to urge discretion when it came to modern amenities, and he let them have their fun. He helped Sigrid make dinner, and then he helped Bard walk down the stairs so that they could all eat in the kitchen. 

All the children went to bed shortly after dinner. Legolas had moved his bundle of blankets and pillows across the hall, and Thranduil was sure he and Bain were wide awake in the next room, but he could not bring himself to scold them for it. He and Bard were left alone for the first time and Thranduil could not think of a single thing to say. 

The night was cool and clear, and a gentle breeze blew through the small window. 

“God, I need a shower,” Thranduil complained. He felt sticky with stale sweat and soot, and his hair was greasy from all the times he’d run his hands through it. 

“A what?” 

“A shower. It’s like a bath, only you stand beneath running water and let your mind wander for fifteen minutes.” 

“A bath,” Bard groans and closed his eyes. “Christ, what I wouldn’t give for a warm bath. But it’s no use now.” 

“Why not?” Thranduil frowned. He actually wasn’t sure what the bathing practises were in the 17th century.

“The bath house will be closed this time of night, and to get enough water we’d have to go to the lake, and that’s half an hour’s walk from here. Even if we wanted to, we’d probably be mugged along the way.” 

Yes, that did sound bothersome. But then a thought occurred to him. “Have I ever told you about the miracle that is indoor plumbing?” He asked with a smile. 

“Indoor what?” 

“Come on,” he said, helping Bard to stand from the bed and motioning for follow to follow as he crossed the room. He crawled through the fireplace, which he’d swept clean before bringing food over earlier in the day, and helped Bard through as well. 

“Nothing’s changed since the last time I was here,” Bard said, taking in the wallpaper and the quaint decor. 

“Nothing’s changed here at least since I was ten.” Thranduil laughed. Bard was slightly out of breath by the time they reached the washroom on the ground floor, and Thranduil helped him to sit on the lid of the toilet while he fetched a fresh towel and wash cloth from the linen closet. Then he found his suitcase where he’d left it in the living room and retrieved the bag of his toiletries containing his body wash, shampoo and conditioner. 

Bard was wide-eyed when he returned, still seated on the lid of the toilet and looking from the sink to the bath tub and back again. Thranduil found himself reminded of the awed way Bard had studied everything when he’d crossed over the first time, confused and delighted by everything he saw. 

Thranduil sat on the edge of the bath and put the stopper in the drain before turning on the water. It came gushing noisily from the spout, and he turned the knobs until the water was warm. When he was satisfied with the temperature, he turned to Bard to find him frowning at the water as it filled the tub. 

“Where is it coming from?” 

“The house is connected to a water tower through pipes underground. And there’s a boiler in the basement that keeps a store of hot water, so we don’t have to wait for it to heat up. 

Bard frowned, as though he didn’t quite believe him. He stood up, crouched beside the bathtub, and dipped his hand into the water. “Incredible,” he murmured. 

“Come on, let’s get you in.” 

Although Bard was able to stand on his own, he was somewhat less than steady on his feet. Thranduil held him upright while he slowly peeled his undershirt up over his head. He stripped off his loose breeches and long underwear somewhat slower, trying not to let it show just how much strain it was putting on him. 

Thranduil averted his eyes, though not entirely out of politeness— he would never forgive himself if Bard caught him staring— and helped to lower him into the bath. Bard hissed at the temperature, but shushed Thranduil when he offered to turn it down. “Don’t you dare,” he threatened, and Thranduil let the matter drop. “You do this every day?” He asked in disbelief. 

“Well not every day,” Thranduil shrugged. “I don’t have the time much anymore. Most days I shower instead.” 

“Standing beneath the water, letting your thoughts wander,” Bard repeated, sounding somewhat in a daze. 

“Yes,” he laughed. 

“I can’t imagine what it must be like, to live this life every day.” 

“You get used to it,” Thranduil said, pausing to think of the implications now that he couldn’t take the words back. 

He offered Bard the wash cloth and body wash, showing him that just because it was liquid didn’t mean it wasn’t also soap. Bard breathed deeply at the calming scent of spearmint and lemongrass, and Thranduil left him to his own devices in favour of finding him some clean clothes to wear. 

He was startled to find Bard sitting with his head on his knees when he returned with a handful of fleece and cotton folded in his arms. “Bard?” He asked, stepping tentatively into the washroom. “Are you alright?” 

“Mm?” Bard mumbled. Thranduil was very suspicious that he’d dozed off, but he didn’t mention it. 

“I brought you some clean clothes to sleep in. I can wash yours and have them back to you tomorrow.” 

“Thank you,” Bard replied with heavy eyes. His skin was pink with the heat of the water, but his hair was still dry and limp where it hung around his face. 

“Here, let me help you.” Thranduil sat on the edge of the bath and found the large plastic cup he’d used to bathe Legolas when he was younger. He poured water over Bard’s head and lathered a dollop of shampoo between his palms. They sat in silence as he began to work it through Bard’s hair, his fingers catching lightly in the tangles there. 

He rinsed Bard’s hair again and repeated the process with some of his conditioner. From his bag of toiletries he retrieved a comb and began to draw it gently through the length of Bard’s hair, working out the tangles and knots with practised ease. 

When he was finished, Bard’s eyes were closed, his face calm and serene like Thranduil had never seen him before. 

“How do you feel?” He asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper, unwilling to disturb the peace of the moment. 

“Better,” Bard swallowed thickly and his eyes fluttered open. “So, so much better.” He turned to Thranduil, the calm expression giving way to something decidedly more intense. “Thank you,” he said, and Thranduil knew he didn’t just mean for the bath. 

“Of course,” said Thranduil. He eased himself to sit beside the tub, his knees aching from kneeling on the tile floor. “It was no trouble.” 

“No,” Bard said. The frown was returning to his features. “You have gone to a great deal of trouble for me, truly.” 

Thranduil gave him a small smile, though it felt more sad than anything else. “I’m happy to do it. Really, Bard, you—“ 

He didn’t have the chance to finish his thought, and part of him was grateful for it, because he hadn’t truly known what he was going to say. Bard lifted his hand to Thranduil’s face, dripping water on his legs and on the floor, but Thranduil didn’t care. Bard pulled him closer, palm holding Thranduil’s cheek gently just as Bard leaned toward him. 

Bard kissed him then, slowly, carefully, as though Thranduil were a frightened doe who might run away if he moved too quickly. Thranduil closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of his own body wash and humid air. He reached both his hands toward Bard’s face, holding him gently between his palms. He took a moment to savour the feeling of him, the man he’d wanted for years but had never been able to have, and then he slowly pulled himself away. 

Still holding Bard gently, he bend his head forward until he could rest his forehead against Bard’s. They stayed that way for a long moment, neither of them wanting to break the fragile silence. When Thranduil opened his eyes, he saw that Bard was already looking at him, studying his blurred image. 

“I’m sorry,” Bard whispered. “I didn’t mean to presume.” 

“Don’t be sorry,” Thranduil rasped, shaking his head even while his forehead still rested against Bard’s. “Please, please don’t be sorry. You can’t know how long I’ve—“ 

“Then why did you stop me?” Bard’s fingers were caught in Thranduil’s hair, the moisture from the bath making it cling messily to Bard’s skin, but he didn’t care. There was a pain in Bard’s voice that made Thranduil’s stomach curl with guilt, but he tried his best to ignore it. 

“It can’t be now. Not like this.”

“Naked in the bath, you mean?” A small curling smile flickered on Bard’s lips, laughing at his own joke even though Thranduil could see the despair veiled thinly behind it.

“Not so soon after… Not while you’re still grieving.” Thranduil felt cruel as he said the words, and he hated himself for the pained expression it brought to Bard’s face. 

“And what about you? Are you not grieving still?” He asked, and perhaps that was cruel too, but it was also fair. 

“I am. Part of me thinks that I always will be. But just like you knew I wouldn’t have been able to move on if I’d stayed here after I lost Madelyn, you need to live your own life. You need to focus on your children and take care of yourself. You may never be done grieving, but it will get easier.” 

“And when will we stop pushing each other away? When will we stop chasing happiness and finally admit that we are happiest _here_ with each other?” 

Thranduil closed his eyes again, felt tears welling painfully in his throat. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice cracking around the tears. He pulled away to look Bard in the eye, still holding his face between his hands. “Soon, I hope. But you need to promise. Promise me you won’t waste your life waiting in front of a fireplace for someone who won’t even be born for another three hundred years.” 

“You’re cruel,” Bard sniffed, and Thranduil knew he was right. 

“I know,” Thranduil agreed, feeling the ache of his decision in his chest already. “But you’ll thank me for it later.” 

“Do you promise?” Bard’s eyes were locked on his, searching intently for an answer. 

“I promise,” Thranduil told him. He leaned in one final time and brushed his lips against Bard’s, allowing Bard to hold him close for just a moment before he broke the kiss with a sigh. “I promise,” he said again, hoping that it would be enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first thermometer dates back to as early as 10 AD, and by the 17th century scientists were using and improving upon thermoscopes, though I couldn't find any information on how widely they were used, or if townspeople like Bard's family would know what they were.


	6. 2017

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil visits the cottage for the last time.

[ 6 ]

Going back to London after Bard had recovered was nearly as difficult as going back to London after he’d lost Madelyn. His thoughts were consumed with Bard, and with the endless list of things that could happen before he saw him again. Bard could hate him. He could fall ill again, he could find someone new. Poverty or desperation could drive him from his home, leaving Thranduil to find a stranger on the other side of the fireplace, oblivious to its magic and the lonely man waiting on the other side.

He tried his best not to dwell on such things, but they crept up on him most nights while he lay awake in bed. And on the nights when they didn’t, he found himself trying to come up with reasons why he shouldn’t just drop everything and go back to Wales the next day. There was nothing stopping him from packing up and leaving; nothing but his own sense of honour or… Thranduil didn’t even know what it was that kept him from Bard. 

Love, his mind supplied late one Tuesday night. It was love that kept him going back to the cottage, and now it was love that told him it was best to stay away for now.

Thranduil frowned and turned over in his bed and tried his best to banish the image of Bard sitting in front of the fireplace, wondering when Thranduil would return. Why must life always be so unfair?

Unfair though it was, Thranduil stayed in London. He knew that Bard would not let him leave Pembroke again if he went back now— knew he wouldn’t want to leave either if he went back— and he knew he couldn’t allow himself to do that before Bard was ready. 

Of course, he had no idea when that would be, and so he fell back into the same thoughts again and again, letting them lull him into an unrestful sleep.

[ - ]

Thranduil held out for three years.

Three years of worrying about Bard, his thoughts spiralling hopelessly every day, three years of reminding himself to _wait_. He’d begun to research Bard’s time, searching scanned documents online and, when it seemed he’d exhausted those avenues, began searching library databases. 

He drew out a timeline, marking all the years he’d visited Pembroke with as much accuracy as he could. Brân had told him the year when they’d met, and he still remembered it like it was yesterday. It had been 1630, and Thranduil had been eighteen. Time seemed to at least be moving steadily on both sides of the fireplace— or at least Bard seemed to be ageing at the same rate as Thranduil. From there he extrapolated the dates of each time he’d visited since then, concluding that it was currently 1648 in Bard’s time. It was early in July, and the seasons seemed to match in both of their times, as well.

When Thranduil couldn’t find any information about Bard or his family, he turned to researching the history of the Pembroke cottage. He found documentation of ownership, beginning with his father’s name as the current owner and dating back to the mid 1700s, when it had been restored. 

Thranduil frowned. He supposed the house could have fallen into disrepair, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He did a search for the history of Pembroke and found himself getting lost in article after article, until finally he reached one that made his heart seize in his chest. 

The British Civil War: 1642-1651, Siege of Pembroke Castle in 1648. 

Sixteen forty-eight. Thranduil checked his timeline and then double-checked his arithmetic, but the dates remained the same. Right now it was 9th July, and Bard was living three hundred and sixty-nine years in the past. All his sources said that it was an eight-week siege, and that it ended on 11th July, meaning that the town was under attack _right now_. 

Thranduil leapt up from his desk, sending his chair rolling across the room as he ran. “Legolas!” He called. It was a Saturday and his son was at home rather than out with his friends, but he was having a hell of a time finding him. “Legolas,” he called again, “We need to leave, now!” 

“What’s wrong?” Legolas asked, appearing at the open sitting room door. 

“We’re going to Pembroke. Pack a small bag, we won’t be there long.” 

“What’s happened?” 

“It’s Bard. They need our help and we need to leave right now.” 

Thranduil scrambled past him and down the hall to his bedroom, leaving Thranduil standing there, suddenly clueless as to what to do next. He ought to pack a bag, he supposed, and bring some food for the drive; it was nearing mid-afternoon and he hadn’t eaten lunch. His stomach turned at the thought of food, but it was a four hour drive and he didn’t plan on stopping unless he had to. 

They were on the road within fifteen minutes. Thranduil was an anxious wreck the entire time, pressing hard on the accelerator, urging the car faster.

[ - ]

They made good time, considering, but Thranduil still felt as though he’d been in the car forever. He parked as close to the house as he could, nearly forgetting to take his keys from the ignition.

He burst into the house, glad that his father had turned over the management of the cottage to him some years ago— he could only imagine the commotion he would have caused if the house had been rented to another family. 

The fireplace was dark when he reached the spare bedroom. The logs on the hearth were old and charred, crumbling around the edges after being left to sit for too long. Thranduil’s gut wrenched. If something had happened already— 

He told Legolas to stay behind, made him promise that he wouldn’t follow him no matter what. He took a deep breath and set his jaw, steeling himself as he crawled through the fireplace. 

The house beyond was dark. There were no lamps or candles lit, and Thranduil moved forward warily, completely blind in the black night. He walked directly into a wooden chair, the scraping of wood on wood sounding catastrophic in the hush of the house. It was only then that he remembered he had a torch on his mobile, and he cursed himself as he pulled it from his pocket. 

Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of shouting, and further still, the muffled boom of what he could only assume was cannon fire. He shone the light from his mobile onto the floor in front of him as the din outside grew slowly louder, making his waycarefully through the house.

The master bedroom was empty, and so he crept down the stairs. “Bard?” He whispered, trying to keep his light away from the small windows and the seams around the front door where it might bleed out into the night. The commotion outside was growing louder, and through the window he could see the flickering light of a fire from somewhere nearby. He didn’t want to attract any attention. 

“Bard?” He hissed again. He checked the living room and found it empty, then turned toward the kitchen. A large shadow seemed to lunge out at him from beyond the doorway, knocking him off his feet with a blow to his shoulder. He landed on the floor, his mobile falling beside him with the torch facing up toward the ceiling. 

The shadow came at him again, looming over him. In the weak torchlight he could see the warped shape of a chair. It came rushing toward him, and through the elongated shadows he could see a face. A man’s face. It was— 

“Bard?” He gasped. Bard stopped suddenly. He leaned closer, chair still held like a weapon in front of him. Thranduil could see his face in the light of his mobile torch, his brows furrowed as he squinted. Thranduil reached for his mobile and shone it on himself, breathing heavily as he struggled to sit up on the floor.

“Thranduil,” Bard breathed. Thranduil couldn’t see with the light pointed at him, but he heard the scrape of the chair being set on the floor and the thud of Bard’s knees hitting the floor. Then Bard’s hands were on him, pulling him bodily forward by the shoulders and clutching at his back. Bard held onto him fiercely, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt. 

“I was beginning to worry that I’d never see you again. I thought that you’d forgotten about us or that we would be killed in the fighting before you got here.”

“I’m so sorry,” Thranduil cried, face pressed into Bard’s shoulder. “I was on the computer and I only figured out what was happening this afternoon! I drove as fast as I could but I was so scared. God, I was so worried that I would be too late. I’m just so glad you’re okay,” he babbled, scrambling for purchase to hold him tighter. 

“Da?” Came a small voice from the kitchen. “What’s going on?” 

“Tilda I told you to stay under the table,” Sigrid said. Thranduil shone his light through the doorway, illuminating Sigrid holding her younger sister close with an arm wrapped around her shoulders. 

“I told you both to stay beneath the table,” Bard said, though there was no heat in his voice. 

“We need to go,” Thranduil said. As if on cue, a resounding crash sounded from nearby, followed by a chorus of shouts and musket fire. “Upstairs. Come on, quickly.” 

“What are we doing? What’s happening?” Thranduil scrambled to get his feet under him and Bard reached down to help him stand.

“You have to come with me. Through the fireplace, you can’t stay here.” 

Bard froze, hands still holding onto Thranduil’s arms. “With you,” he repeated. “Though the fireplace. What is happening? What did you find out?” He studied Thranduil with such intensity, it would have been intimidating under different circumstances. But he was strung too tight, shaking slightly from the adrenaline, and he didn’t back down. 

Thranduil looked over Bard’s shoulder, to where Bain had joined his sisters, all three of them standing in the mouth of the kitchen, watching them. He kept his voice low. “The attack, the fighting happening outside. I know how it ends.” Bard’s eyes darkened and Thranduil hurried to continue. “I was doing research and I only realised this afternoon. Bard. The siege ends in less than two days. The city will be all but destroyed.” 

He watched anxiously as Bard processed this information. He could see the resolve settle in his eyes and the set of his jaw. Bard nodded and turned to his children. “Gather your things, only what you need, and only what you can carry. We’re leaving.” 

“Leaving?” Bain cried, “We can’t go out there, Da!” 

“We’re not going out there,” Sigrid said, studying them. It was possible she’d heard them talking, but the commotion from outside was only growing louder and Thranduil didn’t think she’d been able to hear. She was smart, and she knew what was happening. “We’re going through the fireplace, aren’t we?”

“Yes,” Bard said. “It’s the only way.” 

“We’re going to stay with the fairy man?” 

Bard glanced at Thranduil, either unsure of the answer himself or too polite too assume. Probably, Thranduil thought, it was a bit of both. 

“Yes,” Thranduil said, looking first to Tilda and then to Bard. “You can stay with me for as long as you like. Now come on, we need to go, and we need to be fast.” 

And they were fast. Musket fire rained nearby and the booming of cannon fire was growing louder and louder with each explosion. They heard glass breaking and people screaming and the night flashed bright outside the windows. 

Thranduil waited in the bedroom with Sigrid and Bain, waiting anxiously for Bard and Tilda. When they finally arrived, tears streaming down Tilda’s face as she clutched tightly to her Da’s hand, Thranduil began to usher them through the fireplace. Bain went first, handing off his small leather satchel to Legolas whee he was waiting on the other side. Then Sigrid went through, and she helped Tilda through. Thranduil followed after her, squinting in the harsh fluorescent lights. 

They waited for Bard, but when several long seconds had passed and he still hadn’t emerged, Thranduil knelt down to peer through. “Bard,” he called, straining to be heard over the cacophony of the war waging on the other side. But Bard wasn’t there. Tilda whimpered. “Wait here,” He said to the children, and dropped to his hands and knees. 

He was completely night blind after being in the fluorescent lights, and the small bedroom was pitch black. 

“Bard,” He called again, trying to distinguish between sounds of battle and sounds coming from inside the house. Thranduil saw the flash of light before he heard the terrible titanic _boom_ of a cannon going off nearby. A moment later the floor shook violently beneath his hands, the sound of wood splintering and stone shattering echoing off the walls outside the bedroom. 

“Bard!” He shouted, but his voice sounded muted in his ringing ears, and he didn’t wait for a response before he leapt to his feet. He only made it mid way across the room before he ran into something solid, and it took him a moment to realise it was Bard. 

Relief made his arms shake and his legs feel weak, and he stumbled as Bard pulled him back toward the fireplace. He crawled through, immediately turning around to grab hold of Bard’s hand and pull him quickly out after him. 

“Da, what were you doing? Where did you go?” Bain asked, his voice cracking. 

“Tilda couldn’t find her doll,” Bard said, and held up a small, handmade toy. “I remembered where I’d seen it at the last moment.” Tilda stepped forward and took the doll from his hands, holding it gingerly and looking at it with wide, swimming eyes. Then she threw her arms around Bard’s neck and began to cry in earnest. 

“It’s okay love, I’m here. I’m fine, we’re safe now,” he soothed. “Everything is going to be alright.” 

As Bard comforted her, the sound of cannon fire ripped through the night again, the explosion flaring briefly in the night beyond the fireplace. Rubble began to fall and Thranduil grabbed a fistful of Bard's collar, tugging him backward. Bard still held tightly to Tilda as he scrambled further into the room, his feet clearing the edge of the hearth just as the stones on the other side of the fireplace began to crumble. 

It happened slowly at first, and then all at once. One moment there was dust and small pieces of stone skittering toward them across the hearth, and the next, the entire mantel seemed to collapse on the other side. Dust billowed into the room, spiralling out of the fireplace like smoke. None of them could stop staring at it. 

This fireplace, the incredible magical thing that had connected their worlds for so long, was now just… gone. As quickly as it had come tumbling down, all the rubble disappeared just as suddenly, leaving Thranduil and Bard and all their children staring at a complete and ordinary hearth made entirely of unbroken grey stone, as though there had never been anything special about it at all. 

Thranduil couldn’t remember when he’d stopped breathing, but his next breath came shuddering out of his chest, completely aware of how close he and Bard had come to being trapped when it had collapsed, or destroyed right along with it. He turned to Bard, his look of shock and desperate relief mirrored on own face. He still clutched Bard’s shirt in his hand, and he tugged him closer then, closing his eyes and reaching blindly for his face so he could kiss him. 

It was nothing like the first time they’d kissed. Thranduil was still wound tight, desperation and terror and relief and anger all warring viciously within his chest, and he poured all that into the kiss, pulling away only when he felt tears begin to prickle at his eyes. 

“You idiot,” Thranduil cried, still sitting on the floor and fiercely holding Bard close. “Don’t you _ever_ make me think you’re about to die ever again! Do you hear me?” Bard pulled away, his shocked expression giving way to a manic sort of grin. “Don’t you dare,” Thranduil scolded, but the relief was beginning to win out, and the adrenaline was finally starting to give way to exhaustion and pain. “I can’t believe you hit me with a chair.” 

“You impossible man,” Bard laughed. “Showing up at the last possible moment and saving us all. One grand show of heroism is enough for one lifetime, and you had to go and do it twice.” 

Thranduil pulled him close again and pressed his forehead to Bard’s, squeezing his eyes shut so that the tears spilled onto his cheeks. His voice was grave when he said, “Don’t you _ever_ make me think you’re about to die again, Bard Bowman.” 

“I’ll try my hardest,” Bard murmured. 

He turned and found Legolas standing beside Sigrid, who was about to burst into either laughter or tears. He reached for Legolas, and he came quickly, kneeling beside Thranduil and holding him tightly. Sigrid fell to her knees behind them, clutching Thranduil and Bard tightly while Bain wrapped his arms around Bard’s neck. 

“So…” Tilda began, and Thranduil turned to see her still clutching tightly to Bard, her little face screwed up in a confused frown. “Does this mean Legolas is our new brother?” 

Thranduil began to laugh. He couldn’t help it. This whole night had turned so catastrophic so quickly, and now, just as suddenly, the danger was gone. They were all safe, and they were all together, and this time there was no fireplace to keep them separate. 

Their timing was finally perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> during the course of my research, I learned that the attack on Pembroke in 1648 seems to have focused mostly on sieging the castle. all the accounts I could find made it sound pretty boring, actually. the castle was surrendered to the parliamentarians after an eight week siege, but only after the attackers cut off their water supply. 
> 
> but that doesn't lend any urgency to the situation, so I went with my own version of things (and really, I couldn't find anything that said the town wasn't attacked during the siege, so who knows, I could be right).
> 
> thank you so so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed it as much as I did!  
> please leave me a comment or find me on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com) to let me know what you think!


End file.
